For some time past there had been a worn, weary look upon his face, bespeaking a mind ill at ease; the truth is, his conscience was not at rest, and in time that tells on the countenance.
He had been by the fish-pond for an hour.

But the fish had not shown themselves inclined to bite, and he grew too impatient to remain.
Not altogether impatient at the wary fish, but in his own mental restlessness.

The fishing-rod was carried in his hand in pieces; and he splashed along, in a brown study, on the wet ground, flinging himself over the ha-ha with an ungracious movement.

Some one was approaching across the park from the house, and Lord Hartledon walked on to a gate, and waited there for him to come up.

He began beating the bars with the thin end of the rod, and--broke it! "That's the way you use your fishing-rods," cried the free, pleasant voice of the new-comer.